


Aftermath Beginnings

by Skelebirb



Category: Aftermath - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:51:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skelebirb/pseuds/Skelebirb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little blurb from a desert apocalypse story Iv'e been working on for a while.  Let me know what you like or want to see continued.<br/>The overall story is titled Aftermath and this is, well, the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath Beginnings

The squeaking chair and radio static bounce endlessly across soundproofed walls. Breaking the eternal dead air of what was once the greatest connection hub of a massive rebellion. Cobwebs collect dust in the corners. Dials rust so they couldn't be moved even if people existed to fiddle with them. The only guests on this show were the feeble mice left to forage the wastes of this poisoned city.

Or so we thought.  
...  
A loud crash echoes a near empty building. Sprinting shoes clatter across the concrete floors, thundering down corridors and every broom closet as far as can be heard. They squeak around corners and clatter down flights of stairs, sprinting from whatever unforeseeable force had imprisoned them so many hundreds of days ago when suddenly they stop.  
A dusty mirror, hastily brushed with a tattered sleeve stops the shoes in their tracks.

The shoes are given a face. One long since forgotten.

The Announcer.  
...  
Shotgun blasts crack against a dusty night sky, bodies unseen hit the ground silently while others cry of death and salvation. The beholder of the lightning strike does not heed these calls, she has no time for such things. Weaving through debris and the stench of death, she continues her quest regardless of the hounds at her heels. She must know for sure what has become of her charge. A glimmer of light catches her attention, a lamp overhanging a puddle of blood. She approaches cautiously, wary of whoever spilled it, be they still alive. As she continues scanning the dust for traces of life, she catches herself in the crimson pool, the scar across her cheek reminding her further the importance of her cause.  
Not five seconds later the cacophony of calls bounce off the bricks and she is pulled from her thoughts to the issue at hand. After another flash of manufactured lightning, she disappears once again into the wreckage of the world  
...  
Silence rests here, that's all that does. He must be awake at all times, just in case someone required entry into the castle he guards. Though the king is quiet these days and all but the peasants have left, it is his duty to protect them. It is his duty to watch.  
Although its lonely at times, he doesn't mind all that much. He has what he needs and that's enough for him most of the time... Until the night comes. When he should be asleep, Inklings of freedom worm their way into his mind. The sun, music, those feathered things that once traversed the cerulean skies. Faces. Calling him. Begging for... For help. For their own freedom that was pried from their hands. Sometimes he wonders if those are not inklings, but echoes traversing quiet hallways.

Perhaps tomorrow he would check. Yes. Tomorrow. As he reaches for his mug of coffee, he takes a moment to make sure his head is still on straight. After winking at his caffeinated reflection, he takes a swig and returns to guarding his post.  
...  
Order was all he knew. Safety, success and dental plans. 9 to 5 workdays and parents approval voiced daily. The underling to the most powerful man this side of the globe. And now what has he become but a husk. The face staring back at him from the cracked bathroom mirror resembles a ghost, sheet white and dark shadows. He crumbled long before the world. 

Chaos was all he knew. Risks, slips and cracked teeth. Working till 9 and sleeping till 5, parents judgement voiced daily. Once a failure become a leader. And Now the head of a business built from the dirt. The face staring back at him from the side of a polished boiler resembles a hero, strong and smug, flushed with steam. He rose from the dust as the world fell.  
The twins, once identical, now strangers on separate spiraling tangents.  
...  
Battleground coffee is his salvation, tar and ash like the cigarettes his wife once smoked. After being sent here, he understands now why an asthmatic would do such a thing. Filtering grounds through gritted teeth he surveys his station. All disorder is in order, ammo piled, guns marked, vehicles working well enough. He sets down the tepid liquid in favor of repairing his arm. rebuilt from tank scraps and oil, it works well enough to get by unless it gets jammed with sand as it has now. While he picks at the blockage with a rusty screwdriver, he catches a glimpse of a face on an aluminum can-oh its his, he didn't recognize it at first. Once a trim businessman, he got caught up in some political junk and got tossed out here. No fancy electric razors out here. Nothing but sand out here. He sighs, stopping himself from remembering anymore of the world he lost.  
...  
I am the king.  
I rule this kingdom.  
You may not seem me but do not doubt me. I am watching always my sleeping city. I will drag it screaming from the dust back to the utopia it was before those FOOLS did what they did. This is my throne and I will never be taken from it. If i go so does this pile of scrap that was once my paradise, and all of you will ROT.  
They think they hurt me, dented my ego perhaps? Scared me? They're wrong they're all wrong and now they will crumble into the sandwastes where they belong.  
They will never hurt me. Nobody will.

I am untouchable.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if you want any of them continued eh?


End file.
